A few weeks ago, at the start of Christmas vacation, every time my five-year-old started getting bored, he would say, "What can I do?" This had happened before, and I knew from experience that every suggestion I made would be met with resistance. In fact, I would not be able to make one suggestion that would be greeted with enthusiasm. And so I said, "You're not allowed to ask me anymore what you can do. You're five. You know what you can do. Decide for yourself."
As the words came out of my mouth, I knew God was trying to tell me something. As adults, we often do the same thing my five-year-old does. We ask God endlessly, "What can I do, God? What should I do?" I think God gets tired of it, just like I do. It's not that it's wrong of us to ask; it's just that God wants us to grow up a bit.
Who knows better than God the dreams, ideas, talents, and gifts that lie inside us? He put them there. He gave us hearts and minds. We have all the raw material. What will we build? Nobody given a pile of Lego bricks will build the same thing as the person next to them.
As Christians, we know our boundaries, just like my little guy does. He doesn't need to ask what he can do. He knows what he is not allowed to do in the house, but what he does is up to him. Those choices will define him as he grows. Will he put on a Zelda costume and swing a sword? Will he build with Legos? Will he play Minecraft? Every choice makes him more and more "him." I don't want to tell him what to do or who to be, I want to discover who he is.
What will you build? Who will you be? Your choices are yours and they define you. Stop asking, and start doing.
Monday, January 18, 2016
Wednesday, October 21, 2015
Breathe with Me
Lately I have been thinking that our minds are troubled because we don't keep pace with the universe. Our lives on Earth are short -- 70 or 80 years -- but eternity is long. God lives on an entirely different scale of time; he takes the long view, and we rarely do. But what if we could train ourselves to enter God time, to breathe with him?
A whale's heart beats an average of six beats per minute, and its breaths per minute is about the same. But a hummingbird's heart beats over 1200 times per minute, and in that time it takes 250 breaths. I think we are a lot like hummingbirds.
Toward the end of the movie Signs, a young boy is having an asthma attack, but he is unable to get to his inhaler, because he and his family are stuck down in the basement of their house while terrifying aliens wander around upstairs. Eventually the father is able to help his son through the asthma attack by holding him and saying, "Breathe with me."
When we are freaking out, worrying that things will never turn out, sometimes I think we need to stop and breathe with God. By reminding ourselves that circumstances don't have to meet our demands and life doesn't have to go at the pace we think it should, we can enter God time. All our fretting and frantic demands won't change anything. Listening for God's slow, deep heartbeat can remind us that he loves us. And breathing with him can remind us to slow down, to recognize our frenetic pace, to trust that God is working things out just as he has promised he would. He breathes more slowly than you and me. We want fast but he works slow. When we learn to breathe with him, we can live in peace.
A whale's heart beats an average of six beats per minute, and its breaths per minute is about the same. But a hummingbird's heart beats over 1200 times per minute, and in that time it takes 250 breaths. I think we are a lot like hummingbirds.
Toward the end of the movie Signs, a young boy is having an asthma attack, but he is unable to get to his inhaler, because he and his family are stuck down in the basement of their house while terrifying aliens wander around upstairs. Eventually the father is able to help his son through the asthma attack by holding him and saying, "Breathe with me."
When we are freaking out, worrying that things will never turn out, sometimes I think we need to stop and breathe with God. By reminding ourselves that circumstances don't have to meet our demands and life doesn't have to go at the pace we think it should, we can enter God time. All our fretting and frantic demands won't change anything. Listening for God's slow, deep heartbeat can remind us that he loves us. And breathing with him can remind us to slow down, to recognize our frenetic pace, to trust that God is working things out just as he has promised he would. He breathes more slowly than you and me. We want fast but he works slow. When we learn to breathe with him, we can live in peace.
Thursday, October 8, 2015
Come to Me
Three simple words. I say a variation of them (come here) to my youngest many times a day. I say it when he is upset and needs to calm down. I say it when he needs a hug. I say it when he is acting up and needs to listen and learn. I say it when he is approaching danger. Come here. It carries a slight different meaning depending on the situation, and my tone usually reflects that, but at its root it always means I am here for you. Let me help you.
The good news is that God is always and forever saying the same thing to us: Come here. Come to me. His tone may differ too, depending on our circumstances and what is keeping us away, but he is always and forever holding out his hands to us and saying, "Come to me."
Come when you are grieving.
Come when you are depressed.
Come when you are drinking too much.
Come when you are angry.
Come when you hate yourself.
Come when you hate your mom, your kids, your sister, your friend.
Come when you are hungover.
Come when you are eating too much.
Come when you want to hurt yourself.
Come when you have burned your bridges.
Come when you are trying to control others.
Come when you are failing a class.
Come when you are thinking about texting your dealer.
Come when you have betrayed your spouse, your friend, your brother.
Come when you have no one else to go to.
Come when you are desperate.
Come when you are in debt.
Come when you are sad.
Come to me.
When kids are little, many issues can be resolved with a hug and a snuggle. You disobeyed me? Let's talk about it while I hold you. Someone at school hurt your feelings? Let me hold you. You're angry and frustrated? Sit with me and tell me about it. Physical closeness fosters emotional closeness and keeps little ones safe, in many ways. When kids get older, that physical closeness wanes, and sometimes the emotional closeness does too. In the space between, things spring up that appear to be in the way of regaining that closeness. This happens between us and God too.
But God goes the whole way for us. He has closed the gap. Turn your head. He is right there.
Turn to him in your depression. Come to him in your failures, betrayals, loneliness, and losses. There is no disqualification. That's why the pharisees hated Jesus so much. They were more interested in seeing people disqualified than connected.
My youngest did something wrong the other day--the kind of thing that requires a lot of teaching and correction. But before any of that, I just wanted to hold him, to let him know it was safe to tell me, to let him know that the connection between us is stronger than mistakes or bad choices.
Come to me, God says. It's an always and forever invitation, and we don't have to do anything or fix anything before we show up.
The good news is that God is always and forever saying the same thing to us: Come here. Come to me. His tone may differ too, depending on our circumstances and what is keeping us away, but he is always and forever holding out his hands to us and saying, "Come to me."
Come when you are grieving.
Come when you are depressed.
Come when you are drinking too much.
Come when you are angry.
Come when you hate yourself.
Come when you hate your mom, your kids, your sister, your friend.
Come when you are hungover.
Come when you are eating too much.
Come when you want to hurt yourself.
Come when you have burned your bridges.
Come when you are trying to control others.
Come when you are failing a class.
Come when you are thinking about texting your dealer.
Come when you have betrayed your spouse, your friend, your brother.
Come when you have no one else to go to.
Come when you are desperate.
Come when you are in debt.
Come when you are sad.
Come to me.
When kids are little, many issues can be resolved with a hug and a snuggle. You disobeyed me? Let's talk about it while I hold you. Someone at school hurt your feelings? Let me hold you. You're angry and frustrated? Sit with me and tell me about it. Physical closeness fosters emotional closeness and keeps little ones safe, in many ways. When kids get older, that physical closeness wanes, and sometimes the emotional closeness does too. In the space between, things spring up that appear to be in the way of regaining that closeness. This happens between us and God too.
But God goes the whole way for us. He has closed the gap. Turn your head. He is right there.
Turn to him in your depression. Come to him in your failures, betrayals, loneliness, and losses. There is no disqualification. That's why the pharisees hated Jesus so much. They were more interested in seeing people disqualified than connected.
My youngest did something wrong the other day--the kind of thing that requires a lot of teaching and correction. But before any of that, I just wanted to hold him, to let him know it was safe to tell me, to let him know that the connection between us is stronger than mistakes or bad choices.
Come to me, God says. It's an always and forever invitation, and we don't have to do anything or fix anything before we show up.
Friday, September 25, 2015
Do You Even Know Where You Are Going?
I am the not-so-proud parent of a five-year-old backseat driver. This can happen when you let your little one ride around in the car as you teach your older children to drive, which is exactly what Son4 has done. So from time to time Son4 asks me questions like these: Are your lights on? What does that sign say? Are you going faster than 60? This generally amuses me, except for when he constantly announces the read-out on the speedometer. But the question that amuses me less is the one when he asks me whether I know where I'm going.
The fact that he has an amazing sense of direction only makes matters worse. If you want to get from Point A to Point B around here, you could probably pop him in the car and he could tell you where to turn. That sense of direction is a wonderful thing, but sometimes I like to take a different route, and that's when we run into trouble. That's when he'll ask me: Do you even know where you're going? Just imagine his voice — it is full of doubt and disdain, like, are you the idiot running the show? This is preposterous of course. I mean — does he?! Furthermore, do I have any interest in getting lost? No. The answer is — Yes, I DO know where I am going.
But in life, I think we ask God this question all the time. We look at the things happening around us, and we think, "Dear God, do you even know where you are going? Do you SEE where we are here?" Honestly, it's a pretty arrogant question, isn't it?
The fact that he has an amazing sense of direction only makes matters worse. If you want to get from Point A to Point B around here, you could probably pop him in the car and he could tell you where to turn. That sense of direction is a wonderful thing, but sometimes I like to take a different route, and that's when we run into trouble. That's when he'll ask me: Do you even know where you're going? Just imagine his voice — it is full of doubt and disdain, like, are you the idiot running the show? This is preposterous of course. I mean — does he?! Furthermore, do I have any interest in getting lost? No. The answer is — Yes, I DO know where I am going.
But in life, I think we ask God this question all the time. We look at the things happening around us, and we think, "Dear God, do you even know where you are going? Do you SEE where we are here?" Honestly, it's a pretty arrogant question, isn't it?
Tuesday, September 15, 2015
Idiots?
Sometimes when I read the Bible, I am inclined to think the disciples might have been idiots, but usually I remember that they were just humans, without the benefit of hindsight and a New Testament to explain a few things to them. It must have been awfully confusing traveling around with the Son of God without quite understanding who he was or what he was up to. Let's face it: we have the whole Bible and we still don't really understand the Son of God and what he is up to on Earth.
So the poor disciples often appear utterly faithless. They often seem to be freaking out about something that turns out to be nothing -- which means that the poor disciples appear to be a whole lot like us; and though we might think we'd do better if we had some time to hang out with Jesus, Emmanuel, here in the flesh, I am guessing that is just our ego talking and we wouldn't do any better than they did. I recently read these verses from Matthew 14: Shortly before dawn Jesus went out to them [the disciples, in a boat], walking on the lake. When the disciples saw him walking on the lake, they were terrified. “It’s a ghost,” they said, and cried out in fear. But Jesus immediately said to them: “Take courage! It is I. Don’t be afraid.”
It struck me that much of life is just like the disciples' experience that night. We're just doing our thing -- living our ordinary lives -- and the next thing we know, something scary comes our way: sickness, job loss, relationship troubles, kids making bad choices, etc. And our reactions are the same as the disciples: we are terrified. We don't understand that Jesus is out there on the water and that all circumstances present an opportunity to meet him all over again. I cannot explain your sickness or bankruptcy or divorce or depression or your child's drug use. This world is often a desperate and sad place. I don't have the first idea how God will make a way for these objectively terrible things to work for good, as he says they will. That's the miracle business, and God doesn't need us to see it or understand it in order to make it happen.
Like the disciples, we panic when the unexpected comes our way because we don't yet have the benefit of hindsight and because trust is not our strong suit. But Jesus is on the water, walking toward you. This I DO know. It looks scary, yes, it does. But I hear Jesus saying, "Take courage! It is I. Don't be afraid."
So the poor disciples often appear utterly faithless. They often seem to be freaking out about something that turns out to be nothing -- which means that the poor disciples appear to be a whole lot like us; and though we might think we'd do better if we had some time to hang out with Jesus, Emmanuel, here in the flesh, I am guessing that is just our ego talking and we wouldn't do any better than they did. I recently read these verses from Matthew 14: Shortly before dawn Jesus went out to them [the disciples, in a boat], walking on the lake. When the disciples saw him walking on the lake, they were terrified. “It’s a ghost,” they said, and cried out in fear. But Jesus immediately said to them: “Take courage! It is I. Don’t be afraid.”
It struck me that much of life is just like the disciples' experience that night. We're just doing our thing -- living our ordinary lives -- and the next thing we know, something scary comes our way: sickness, job loss, relationship troubles, kids making bad choices, etc. And our reactions are the same as the disciples: we are terrified. We don't understand that Jesus is out there on the water and that all circumstances present an opportunity to meet him all over again. I cannot explain your sickness or bankruptcy or divorce or depression or your child's drug use. This world is often a desperate and sad place. I don't have the first idea how God will make a way for these objectively terrible things to work for good, as he says they will. That's the miracle business, and God doesn't need us to see it or understand it in order to make it happen.
Like the disciples, we panic when the unexpected comes our way because we don't yet have the benefit of hindsight and because trust is not our strong suit. But Jesus is on the water, walking toward you. This I DO know. It looks scary, yes, it does. But I hear Jesus saying, "Take courage! It is I. Don't be afraid."
Monday, February 2, 2015
Eyes to See
In less than three weeks now, Glennon Doyle Melton, creator of Momastery.com will be speaking at our church. I am the lucky (terrified) duck who will be on stage interviewing her. Glennon is remarkable because she has a way of making room for people, a way of inviting them into love. Her blog is like a church itself (or what a church should be) -- a place of community and growth and service and love.
Recently she wrote a blog post entitled Cool Ashes Don't Burn about being a witness to others' pain. She talks about how we all need to be seen and heard and that we all need acknowledgment that our pain is real. This idea resounded with me because it's something we do naturally for our own friends and it's something we sometimes need to have done for us. But I wondered why. What makes this so powerful? And then I thought of Hagar.
Genesis 16 tells the painful story of Hagar, slave to Sarah, and ultimately a second wife to Abraham. Sarah could not conceive, and she was tired of waiting for God's promise to be fulfilled, so she let Abraham take Hagar so that a family could be built that way. But once Hagar was pregnant, she began to despise Sarah, and ultimately Sarah mistreated her. What a mess.
Hagar ran away, and when she was on the run, she ran into God himself. God told Hagar to return to her mistress, but he also gave her some promises about the boy she was carrying in her belly. Hagar obeyed the Lord and returned to Sarah, and she also gave a new name to God: “You are the God who sees me,” for she said, “I have now seen the One who sees me.”
God saw Hagar's situation -- she was a woman without choices. She was a slave, and she was commanded into a bad situation in which the only possible result would be even worse for her. I find it difficult that God didn't really change things for Hagar -- she was to remain a slave. But God did "see" her, and he did give her a son and promise that her descendants would be too numerous to count.
Sometimes we want God to do more than see, don't we? We want him to DO. To FIX. To CHANGE. I am fairly certain he does that too, just rarely as quickly as we want. He is the God who transforms. The God who transfigures. The God who wastes nothing. The God who makes the bad good. The God who gives us beauty for ashes. But first... First he sees. Glennon's post is a great reminder that we can participate with God in this great thing he does: we can see too.
Recently she wrote a blog post entitled Cool Ashes Don't Burn about being a witness to others' pain. She talks about how we all need to be seen and heard and that we all need acknowledgment that our pain is real. This idea resounded with me because it's something we do naturally for our own friends and it's something we sometimes need to have done for us. But I wondered why. What makes this so powerful? And then I thought of Hagar.
Genesis 16 tells the painful story of Hagar, slave to Sarah, and ultimately a second wife to Abraham. Sarah could not conceive, and she was tired of waiting for God's promise to be fulfilled, so she let Abraham take Hagar so that a family could be built that way. But once Hagar was pregnant, she began to despise Sarah, and ultimately Sarah mistreated her. What a mess.
Hagar ran away, and when she was on the run, she ran into God himself. God told Hagar to return to her mistress, but he also gave her some promises about the boy she was carrying in her belly. Hagar obeyed the Lord and returned to Sarah, and she also gave a new name to God: “You are the God who sees me,” for she said, “I have now seen the One who sees me.”
God saw Hagar's situation -- she was a woman without choices. She was a slave, and she was commanded into a bad situation in which the only possible result would be even worse for her. I find it difficult that God didn't really change things for Hagar -- she was to remain a slave. But God did "see" her, and he did give her a son and promise that her descendants would be too numerous to count.
Sometimes we want God to do more than see, don't we? We want him to DO. To FIX. To CHANGE. I am fairly certain he does that too, just rarely as quickly as we want. He is the God who transforms. The God who transfigures. The God who wastes nothing. The God who makes the bad good. The God who gives us beauty for ashes. But first... First he sees. Glennon's post is a great reminder that we can participate with God in this great thing he does: we can see too.
Friday, January 9, 2015
All You Don't Have
Years of difficult finances and debt have left me somewhat enslaved to counting the dollars and "figuring things out." It's a terrible way to live, and I've felt trapped there by circumstances with no way out despite my endless "figuring." But last Sunday at church I heard God's unmistakeable voice in my head saying, "Stop counting your resources." It got me thinking about Gideon and self-reliance and miracles.
God charges Gideon with attacking the Midianites, but he also says this about Gideon's army: “You have too many men. I cannot deliver Midian into their hands, or Israel would boast against me, ‘My own strength has saved me.’" (Judges 7:2) Gideon started with an army of over 30,000 men, but ultimately God used an army of 300 to defeat the Midianites.
As American Christians, I think we are big fans of the gospel of self-reliance. We love the idea that God helps those who helps themselves, despite the fact that there's no Bible reference for that one. Grace makes us uncomfortable. Lack of personal responsibility even more so.
I am all about personal responsibility. I love it so much, because if something is up to me, then I can make it happen. If it's someone else's job, well they might not do it. But if it's mine, I know I will. Yes, I just might be a bit of a control-freak workaholic, and God just might have been working on that in me for the past decade or so. The reality is that despite my best efforts, I cannot fix my mess. I don't have the resources to do so. And I am not just talking financial resources. I'm talking about all kinds of resources -- time, emotional reserves, ideas, opportunities, wisdom, love... I cannot resource my way to the changes that need to happen in my life. I don't have what's needed, but God is telling me he doesn't need me to.
Transfiguring things is something we cannot do, but it IS what God does. I come with water, and Jesus makes the wine. It is a miracle, plain and simple. This is what I hear God calling me to. He's saying, "Let me transfigure things. Give me your water, and I will give you wine. See what I can do with all you DON'T have."
I lack the financial resources to change our financial picture in any real way. I lack the emotional reserves to not feel pulled down by difficulty, to live life lightly. I lack the time to devote to writing because I am fixated on the financial resources I need to earn. It's the beginning of a new year, and I feel invited to a miracle. What can God do with all I do not have? We shall see. We shall see.
God charges Gideon with attacking the Midianites, but he also says this about Gideon's army: “You have too many men. I cannot deliver Midian into their hands, or Israel would boast against me, ‘My own strength has saved me.’" (Judges 7:2) Gideon started with an army of over 30,000 men, but ultimately God used an army of 300 to defeat the Midianites.
As American Christians, I think we are big fans of the gospel of self-reliance. We love the idea that God helps those who helps themselves, despite the fact that there's no Bible reference for that one. Grace makes us uncomfortable. Lack of personal responsibility even more so.
I am all about personal responsibility. I love it so much, because if something is up to me, then I can make it happen. If it's someone else's job, well they might not do it. But if it's mine, I know I will. Yes, I just might be a bit of a control-freak workaholic, and God just might have been working on that in me for the past decade or so. The reality is that despite my best efforts, I cannot fix my mess. I don't have the resources to do so. And I am not just talking financial resources. I'm talking about all kinds of resources -- time, emotional reserves, ideas, opportunities, wisdom, love... I cannot resource my way to the changes that need to happen in my life. I don't have what's needed, but God is telling me he doesn't need me to.
Transfiguring things is something we cannot do, but it IS what God does. I come with water, and Jesus makes the wine. It is a miracle, plain and simple. This is what I hear God calling me to. He's saying, "Let me transfigure things. Give me your water, and I will give you wine. See what I can do with all you DON'T have."
I lack the financial resources to change our financial picture in any real way. I lack the emotional reserves to not feel pulled down by difficulty, to live life lightly. I lack the time to devote to writing because I am fixated on the financial resources I need to earn. It's the beginning of a new year, and I feel invited to a miracle. What can God do with all I do not have? We shall see. We shall see.
Thursday, January 1, 2015
Making Room
Christmas is over, but I am being hounded by a message sent home in my son's preschool papers. It was a brown construction-paper nativity scene with stickers to place for Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus. Inside the stable was a piece of paper that said "We are all innkeepers." I cannot stop thinking about it.
Like the innkeeper, we all have a choice to make, except that we get to make that choice again and again and again. Will we make room for Jesus? Will we make room for him in our happiness and our sadness? In our successes and our failures? In our darkness and our light? Are there places we think he cannot or will not go? Are we afraid he won't come into some places or afraid that he will enter some places we keep for ourselves?
This Emmanuel, this God with us, will come in anywhere. The whole born in a stable thing makes that perfectly clear. What is more vulnerable than an infant? What is dirtier than a stable? There is no place in our lives that Jesus is afraid of. There is nothing too messy for him, although sometimes I think it's easier to let him into our messes than into the things that seem like they are going well.
At the beginning of this new year, I am asking myself, how will I make more room for him? My life is maxed out -- full of demands and responsibilities and people to love and take care of. I can't "make" time. For me the only answer to making room is to see Jesus in the now. God, the I AM, is present in every moment, so making room is a matter of seeing in a new way. It's not even so much inviting God into the present moment (although sometimes it may be that) but more of seeing that he is already there -- God with us, God with me.
Yet I think God is asking more of me. I am that cliché of a woman, who can make time for anything and anyone but not so much for herself. I make little time for writing or the things I want most, but I hear a whisper asking me, "Will you make room? Will you make room for you? For your gifts?" I am not sure why I resist my own self so much, but this morning I am wondering whether making more time for the things in my own heart won't be its own way of letting God in. When I write and do the things I love, I think I make room for us both.
My heart is its own inn. What good does it do to say yes when he asks for entrance if I'm not truly occupying the space myself? Here's to a new year.
Like the innkeeper, we all have a choice to make, except that we get to make that choice again and again and again. Will we make room for Jesus? Will we make room for him in our happiness and our sadness? In our successes and our failures? In our darkness and our light? Are there places we think he cannot or will not go? Are we afraid he won't come into some places or afraid that he will enter some places we keep for ourselves?
This Emmanuel, this God with us, will come in anywhere. The whole born in a stable thing makes that perfectly clear. What is more vulnerable than an infant? What is dirtier than a stable? There is no place in our lives that Jesus is afraid of. There is nothing too messy for him, although sometimes I think it's easier to let him into our messes than into the things that seem like they are going well.
At the beginning of this new year, I am asking myself, how will I make more room for him? My life is maxed out -- full of demands and responsibilities and people to love and take care of. I can't "make" time. For me the only answer to making room is to see Jesus in the now. God, the I AM, is present in every moment, so making room is a matter of seeing in a new way. It's not even so much inviting God into the present moment (although sometimes it may be that) but more of seeing that he is already there -- God with us, God with me.
Yet I think God is asking more of me. I am that cliché of a woman, who can make time for anything and anyone but not so much for herself. I make little time for writing or the things I want most, but I hear a whisper asking me, "Will you make room? Will you make room for you? For your gifts?" I am not sure why I resist my own self so much, but this morning I am wondering whether making more time for the things in my own heart won't be its own way of letting God in. When I write and do the things I love, I think I make room for us both.
My heart is its own inn. What good does it do to say yes when he asks for entrance if I'm not truly occupying the space myself? Here's to a new year.
Wednesday, August 27, 2014
Night and Day
I live inside the Psalms. They give words to my days, an endless source of comfort and help. On Sunday these verses from Psalm 74 jumped out at me:
Yet God is my king from of old,
Who works deeds of deliverance in the midst of the earth.
...Yours is the day, Yours also is the night;
You have prepared the light and the sun.
You have established all the boundaries of the earth;
You have made summer and winter.
Some Christians like to think there should only be light. That if there is darkness in your life, you are at fault. You should pray more, believe more, and worship more until the darkness goes away. The darkness is just not meant to be.
I think God and the Bible are much more nuanced that most Christians. Psalm 74 says, "Yours is the day, Yours also is the night." There is day and night in my life, all the time. I don't think we can live with an ounce of peace if we have to endlessly fight the darkness in our lives; if we can't just say, this, too, is a part of life. I think most Christians are wrong, quite frankly. At least the loud ones anyway. I live in light and in dark, and Emmanuel lives in it all with me. And thank God for that.
Yet God is my king from of old,
Who works deeds of deliverance in the midst of the earth.
...Yours is the day, Yours also is the night;
You have prepared the light and the sun.
You have established all the boundaries of the earth;
You have made summer and winter.
Some Christians like to think there should only be light. That if there is darkness in your life, you are at fault. You should pray more, believe more, and worship more until the darkness goes away. The darkness is just not meant to be.
I think God and the Bible are much more nuanced that most Christians. Psalm 74 says, "Yours is the day, Yours also is the night." There is day and night in my life, all the time. I don't think we can live with an ounce of peace if we have to endlessly fight the darkness in our lives; if we can't just say, this, too, is a part of life. I think most Christians are wrong, quite frankly. At least the loud ones anyway. I live in light and in dark, and Emmanuel lives in it all with me. And thank God for that.
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
Focus
Yesterday we went to a nearby state park, just me and the littlest. It was one of those summer days that makes me wish every day would be like it and fear that there will never be another as perfect: sunshine, dry air, a breeze, warm. The boy plunged into the cold creek water, squealing again and again. He did a circuit through sand and mud, and then ran in, as deep as he could go. I dug my feet into the mud and listened to the breeze rustle leaves, the water run over rocks, and the boy sing, "You're my best mommy. You're my hero." .
It is easy to see the glass half empty. Some days I can think that this isn't the shape my life was supposed to take. And certainly by now I should have had some time to think my own thoughts and sleep past 5:30 a.m. I should have been helping my older boys figure things out and accomplish what they need to accomplish to set them on the best trajectory into adulthood. I should have been working more, earning more. College is upon us. Instead my days have been consumed by a relentlessly demanding little one. A complicated boy. It feels like he takes everything from me and leaves me with very little for anyone else. I can grow somewhat resentful if I let those thoughts sink it. I worry that the situation makes his brothers resentful, and surely it does sometimes.
But yesterday we went to the creek. We kicked up cold water and searched for shiny rocks. Later we sat on a boulder beneath a tree and just listened. "I like it here," he said. He kissed me and hugged me. I would never have been listening to a breeze, squishing my toes in mud, or splashing in cold water yesterday if it were not for him. My glass is not half empty. It is overflowing. Some days I just need to remember that.
It is easy to see the glass half empty. Some days I can think that this isn't the shape my life was supposed to take. And certainly by now I should have had some time to think my own thoughts and sleep past 5:30 a.m. I should have been helping my older boys figure things out and accomplish what they need to accomplish to set them on the best trajectory into adulthood. I should have been working more, earning more. College is upon us. Instead my days have been consumed by a relentlessly demanding little one. A complicated boy. It feels like he takes everything from me and leaves me with very little for anyone else. I can grow somewhat resentful if I let those thoughts sink it. I worry that the situation makes his brothers resentful, and surely it does sometimes.
But yesterday we went to the creek. We kicked up cold water and searched for shiny rocks. Later we sat on a boulder beneath a tree and just listened. "I like it here," he said. He kissed me and hugged me. I would never have been listening to a breeze, squishing my toes in mud, or splashing in cold water yesterday if it were not for him. My glass is not half empty. It is overflowing. Some days I just need to remember that.
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
The Stuff That Burns
During worship on Sunday, I saw a picture in my mind of a huge field of dead grasses. I felt that God was showing me that the dead grass represented the things that have died inside of us. Our dreams. Our hopes. Even the deadness of our very selves — our ability to accomplish what we want or to live the way we want to live. Our failures are dead things. It seemed to me that some of these things had not just died once but had died repeatedly. The child you hope will stop using drugs but keeps getting trapped again. The financial picture that never seems to change. The baby you have been waiting for. The marriage you expected. The dream that once upon a time seemed so real and close to fruition that has instead slipped further and further from your grasp to the point that you no longer grasp for it. Dead. Dead. Dead. Again. Again. Again. Things so dead that you have given up on them entirely. Those dead things.
Jesus died too, you know. He was truly and actually dead, and to my knowledge you can't get deader than dead. You're done for when you're dead, and that's how lost dreams and dashed hopes feel. But here's the good news: dead grass is easily ignited. And that spark that ignites the grass is the Holy Spirit. We don't know when he will drop a spark on our dead grasses, but when he does, they will light up and the fire will burn for miles.
I think most of us regret the dead things in our lives and think somehow we should have prevented them from dying. We should have done better. We should have made it work. We should have prayed harder, had more faith, held on tighter. But that's garbage. God doesn't need our strength or our "perfection" or our good ideas. I also don't think he needs our prayers or our faith or our obedience (at least in the way we think he does), though some would likely disagree. I know he doesn't need our success — we're the ones who need that. As Paul said, "That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong." God loves to use our weakness. I think God really wants us to know it's not on us to make things happen, it's on him. This is why he chooses the foolish and the weak. Unfortunately, the way we often learn all of this is by watching a lot of things die.
In God, we can actually embrace the dead things in our lives, thank God for them, and live at peace with them. We can do that because we know the dead things are fuel for life. As Jesus said in John 12: "Very truly I tell you, unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds." The life reaped from the death of Jesus is still rippling across this earth and will keep rippling. Don't be discouraged. Someday, I don't know when, what has died inside of you will be ignited and generate more life than you'd planned on. Buckle up. This isn't the ride you were expecting.
Jesus died too, you know. He was truly and actually dead, and to my knowledge you can't get deader than dead. You're done for when you're dead, and that's how lost dreams and dashed hopes feel. But here's the good news: dead grass is easily ignited. And that spark that ignites the grass is the Holy Spirit. We don't know when he will drop a spark on our dead grasses, but when he does, they will light up and the fire will burn for miles.
I think most of us regret the dead things in our lives and think somehow we should have prevented them from dying. We should have done better. We should have made it work. We should have prayed harder, had more faith, held on tighter. But that's garbage. God doesn't need our strength or our "perfection" or our good ideas. I also don't think he needs our prayers or our faith or our obedience (at least in the way we think he does), though some would likely disagree. I know he doesn't need our success — we're the ones who need that. As Paul said, "That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong." God loves to use our weakness. I think God really wants us to know it's not on us to make things happen, it's on him. This is why he chooses the foolish and the weak. Unfortunately, the way we often learn all of this is by watching a lot of things die.
In God, we can actually embrace the dead things in our lives, thank God for them, and live at peace with them. We can do that because we know the dead things are fuel for life. As Jesus said in John 12: "Very truly I tell you, unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds." The life reaped from the death of Jesus is still rippling across this earth and will keep rippling. Don't be discouraged. Someday, I don't know when, what has died inside of you will be ignited and generate more life than you'd planned on. Buckle up. This isn't the ride you were expecting.
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
A Big Cup
On Sunday I brought the three-year-old up for communion. Our church has a family communion time for the kids before they go to Sunday school, and I appreciate that. When I was a kid, my parents wouldn't let me take communion, despite the fact that I prayed for salvation at least weekly, if not more. I was a fearful kid.
This week during communion, I was struck by how long it takes Son4 to drink the very small cup of communion juice — several swallows — and in that moment, it felt profound. It should take several swallows — the cup of salvation is a big cup. I wonder why, then, we try to make it smaller. Why do we try to exclude people from it?
Jesus died one death, but the blood that flowed then is still flowing. It is for the salvation of all who believe. But for Christians since then, it has often been seen as the cup of salvation for all who believe AND [fill in the blank]. For some of the earliest Christians, it was the cup of salvation for all who believe AND are circumcised and don't eat certain things. For many American Christians these days, it might be the cup of salvation for all who believe AND aren't gay or for all who believe AND aren't pro-choice. I am just saying that some people might see it that way. I am fairly certain that many of us who call ourselves Christians fill in the blank in one way or the other, or at least we used to. I am asking myself how I fill in that blank or how I used to fill it in.
Why do we do that? Why do we try to exclude people from salvation? ... Because, really, I think that is what Christians often seem to think they are qualified to do. Frankly, I am happy to leave that task up to God himself, the only one who could possibly have the required wisdom and understanding.
When I look at Jesus, I see someone who blew away the boundaries of religious exclusion. "Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest." Judgment is an exhausting burden. We are not meant for it. So let's drink from the big cup and join Jesus in inviting everyone to drink too.
This week during communion, I was struck by how long it takes Son4 to drink the very small cup of communion juice — several swallows — and in that moment, it felt profound. It should take several swallows — the cup of salvation is a big cup. I wonder why, then, we try to make it smaller. Why do we try to exclude people from it?
Jesus died one death, but the blood that flowed then is still flowing. It is for the salvation of all who believe. But for Christians since then, it has often been seen as the cup of salvation for all who believe AND [fill in the blank]. For some of the earliest Christians, it was the cup of salvation for all who believe AND are circumcised and don't eat certain things. For many American Christians these days, it might be the cup of salvation for all who believe AND aren't gay or for all who believe AND aren't pro-choice. I am just saying that some people might see it that way. I am fairly certain that many of us who call ourselves Christians fill in the blank in one way or the other, or at least we used to. I am asking myself how I fill in that blank or how I used to fill it in.
Why do we do that? Why do we try to exclude people from salvation? ... Because, really, I think that is what Christians often seem to think they are qualified to do. Frankly, I am happy to leave that task up to God himself, the only one who could possibly have the required wisdom and understanding.
When I look at Jesus, I see someone who blew away the boundaries of religious exclusion. "Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest." Judgment is an exhausting burden. We are not meant for it. So let's drink from the big cup and join Jesus in inviting everyone to drink too.
Monday, October 21, 2013
The Baby on the Side of the Road
Last night, I had a dream. I found a baby in a stroller, abandoned on the side of the road. I took the baby home to keep her safe and figure out how to find her parents. More than a day passed before I went to the police to report that I had found a baby. In that time, I never once picked the baby up, changed her diaper, or fed her. She just sat quietly in the stroller in my house. When I woke up this morning, I remembered the dream and felt disturbed. How had I left that baby all alone and not cared for her?
And then I got it. That baby. She is a representation of a gift I have -- a talent. I invest almost nothing in it. Like that baby, I do not take care of her or nurture her. She just sits there, and I ignore her. She has stopped making noise, if she ever made any.
And the more I thought about it, the more I became sure what an accurate picture this is of the state of things. We like to think our talents are straight-up gifts. A blessing, not a burden. And I think that's where we (or I) go wrong. I have four children, and they are wonderful blessings to be sure. It is amazing to watch them grow up, to see who they are meant to be, and to share in their lives, It is a blessing to be a mom, but kids are a whole lot of work.
Before you are a parent, there is simply no way to understand just how much work children are and how much mundane, nose-to-the-grindstone effort is a part of parenting. Maybe some people wouldn't put it that way, but apparently I do. When they are babies, it is all the feeding, diapering, not sleeping. There is all the lugging around, of baby and the paraphernalia. And then as they grow, everything has to be taught and not all are such eager pupils. They must be taught to obey, taught how to treat others, taught how to use the bathroom, dress themselves, tie their shoes. The basics. As they grow older, they must be taught responsibility for homework, chores, commitments, a job. And there is still all that feeding to do. Kids want to keep on eating! The point is, parenting is a lot of work. There are transcendent moments, to be sure. And lots of joyful moments too, watching your child score a goal, hit a ball, get an A, conquer a fear. I love to watch each of my kids be who they are meant to be, but none of them would be that person without encouragement, help, and correction. And they certainly wouldn't be those people if I never bothered to attend to the drudgery of going to the grocery store, buying food, and then bringing it home to feed them. In fact, a whole lot of work goes on behind the scenes of those transcendent and joyful moments.
I think our talents are the same. It is not just about a song sung on stage, a book published, a painting hung on a gallery wall. Our talents involve work, even drudgery. They must be nurtured, encouraged, taught, and cared for. You might even need to change their diapers. Get rid of the garbage. A talent must not be neglected, as mine has been. The thing about kids is that they won't leave you alone. First they cry to have their needs met, and then they pester you. They won't stop asking for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. For most of us, our talents are much quieter, less demanding. They wait, in silence. We walk right by the quiet baby and ignore its needs. But if we ignore our talents and their need for nurture, there will never be transcendent moments. The book will not be published, the painting will never hang in a gallery.
It is easy to push aside the demands our gifts and talents make on us. Our bosses are loud. Our children are louder. They all easily make demands. Somehow I find the time to meet the demands of deadlines and my children. I do my work, and I wash the clothes, go grocery shopping, make the meals, and take people here and there. I do it over and over again. No matter how busy I am or how tired and sick of it all I feel, I keep doing it. I have to. And somehow, I have to see that quiet baby as one fully deserving of attention, help her have a voice and make her own demands, and then make room for it all. I have to accept the reality that even our talents involve work, work, work. And I have to juggle the priorities and make room for this baby, just like I make room for my work and for my kids. I see that baby, neglected in the stroller. I don't want to forget her.
And then I got it. That baby. She is a representation of a gift I have -- a talent. I invest almost nothing in it. Like that baby, I do not take care of her or nurture her. She just sits there, and I ignore her. She has stopped making noise, if she ever made any.
And the more I thought about it, the more I became sure what an accurate picture this is of the state of things. We like to think our talents are straight-up gifts. A blessing, not a burden. And I think that's where we (or I) go wrong. I have four children, and they are wonderful blessings to be sure. It is amazing to watch them grow up, to see who they are meant to be, and to share in their lives, It is a blessing to be a mom, but kids are a whole lot of work.
Before you are a parent, there is simply no way to understand just how much work children are and how much mundane, nose-to-the-grindstone effort is a part of parenting. Maybe some people wouldn't put it that way, but apparently I do. When they are babies, it is all the feeding, diapering, not sleeping. There is all the lugging around, of baby and the paraphernalia. And then as they grow, everything has to be taught and not all are such eager pupils. They must be taught to obey, taught how to treat others, taught how to use the bathroom, dress themselves, tie their shoes. The basics. As they grow older, they must be taught responsibility for homework, chores, commitments, a job. And there is still all that feeding to do. Kids want to keep on eating! The point is, parenting is a lot of work. There are transcendent moments, to be sure. And lots of joyful moments too, watching your child score a goal, hit a ball, get an A, conquer a fear. I love to watch each of my kids be who they are meant to be, but none of them would be that person without encouragement, help, and correction. And they certainly wouldn't be those people if I never bothered to attend to the drudgery of going to the grocery store, buying food, and then bringing it home to feed them. In fact, a whole lot of work goes on behind the scenes of those transcendent and joyful moments.
I think our talents are the same. It is not just about a song sung on stage, a book published, a painting hung on a gallery wall. Our talents involve work, even drudgery. They must be nurtured, encouraged, taught, and cared for. You might even need to change their diapers. Get rid of the garbage. A talent must not be neglected, as mine has been. The thing about kids is that they won't leave you alone. First they cry to have their needs met, and then they pester you. They won't stop asking for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. For most of us, our talents are much quieter, less demanding. They wait, in silence. We walk right by the quiet baby and ignore its needs. But if we ignore our talents and their need for nurture, there will never be transcendent moments. The book will not be published, the painting will never hang in a gallery.
It is easy to push aside the demands our gifts and talents make on us. Our bosses are loud. Our children are louder. They all easily make demands. Somehow I find the time to meet the demands of deadlines and my children. I do my work, and I wash the clothes, go grocery shopping, make the meals, and take people here and there. I do it over and over again. No matter how busy I am or how tired and sick of it all I feel, I keep doing it. I have to. And somehow, I have to see that quiet baby as one fully deserving of attention, help her have a voice and make her own demands, and then make room for it all. I have to accept the reality that even our talents involve work, work, work. And I have to juggle the priorities and make room for this baby, just like I make room for my work and for my kids. I see that baby, neglected in the stroller. I don't want to forget her.
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
Waiting
I am waiting for spring to come with something approaching desperation. It hasn't been the coldest winter, and it certainly hasn't been the snowiest, but it has been gray and dreary and rainy and long. Does sunshine even exist? Is there such a thing as a warm breeze? Is there anything but this flat light and this thoroughly drenched, cold, muddy ground? Spring seems impossible — a fantasy. I am waiting.
This morning I read Psalm 130, and this verse struck me: "I wait for the Lord more than watchmen wait for the morning, more than watchmen wait for the morning."
I am not big on the waiting. I tend to take the short view, focus on the now. I am an American Christian, immersed in my culture. We don't wait.
But lately I have been pondering the ways that God is reflected in the realities of daily life. If we would pause and reflect, we might see a bit more clearly. So this morning what I see is that it is possible to wait for God, for heaven, for the real life — the life to come — with true yearning and desperation. This is winter's lesson for me this morning. "I wait for the Lord, my whole being waits, and in his word I put my hope."
This morning I read Psalm 130, and this verse struck me: "I wait for the Lord more than watchmen wait for the morning, more than watchmen wait for the morning."
I am not big on the waiting. I tend to take the short view, focus on the now. I am an American Christian, immersed in my culture. We don't wait.
But lately I have been pondering the ways that God is reflected in the realities of daily life. If we would pause and reflect, we might see a bit more clearly. So this morning what I see is that it is possible to wait for God, for heaven, for the real life — the life to come — with true yearning and desperation. This is winter's lesson for me this morning. "I wait for the Lord, my whole being waits, and in his word I put my hope."
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Words and Ways
Shortly after the election I read somewhere that the word Christian had become a political term. This was the writer's opinion of course, and I found myself agreeing. In the greater public realm, Christian has come to convey a lot of bigotry and judgment, because Christians have sounded -- and been -- bigoted and judgmental.
I wonder why it's so hard for us to let people just be, to acknowledge that each person, every one, is on a journey. Each day we travel. Sometimes we get stranded and stuck, but that, too, is part of the journey. Have you ever been on a trip and had your car break down? Are you still there -- on the side of the road in your broken down car? Or did you deal with it and move on? And if so, didn't the breakdown become part of the story of that particular road trip?
Why do some of us think we've got this whole life thing locked up, all figured out? Some people think that not only do they know where they are going and just how to get there, but they know where everyone else should be going too and the road they should travel to reach their destination... They heap judgment on others' journeys when they've never even been on that road.
I wish that we could all just see ourselves as pilgrims and appreciate the fact that every person is just looking for the way. I wish that we all could experience the communion of our common humanity, be in it together, rather than thinking we have to tell each other what to do. Jesus said that he was the Way, the Truth, the Life. And early Christians referred to themselves as followers of the Way. I like that because it implies that we are on the road.
While we live on this earth, we journey. We have not arrived at our destination. I can help you find your way, but only if I get on the road with you and stand in your shoes. I can't stand over here where I am and tell you where to go. My map doesn't look like yours because we're on different roads. If you try to follow my map from where you stand, you will get lost.
Fortunately, Jesus. a.k.a God with Us, is the Way. He stands with me on my road, and he stands with you on yours. The only people who can help us find the way are the ones who are willing to stand with us right where we are. This is why judgment is such an affront. It is the opposite of all that Jesus is. He entered into this painful life, full of suffering, so that we would not be alone. He did not stand far off and point and gesture and yell, trying to get us on the road, and then judge us when we didn't hear him because the distance was so great. He came near. He still comes near. He stands with us where we are so he can show us the way.
I wonder why it's so hard for us to let people just be, to acknowledge that each person, every one, is on a journey. Each day we travel. Sometimes we get stranded and stuck, but that, too, is part of the journey. Have you ever been on a trip and had your car break down? Are you still there -- on the side of the road in your broken down car? Or did you deal with it and move on? And if so, didn't the breakdown become part of the story of that particular road trip?
Why do some of us think we've got this whole life thing locked up, all figured out? Some people think that not only do they know where they are going and just how to get there, but they know where everyone else should be going too and the road they should travel to reach their destination... They heap judgment on others' journeys when they've never even been on that road.
I wish that we could all just see ourselves as pilgrims and appreciate the fact that every person is just looking for the way. I wish that we all could experience the communion of our common humanity, be in it together, rather than thinking we have to tell each other what to do. Jesus said that he was the Way, the Truth, the Life. And early Christians referred to themselves as followers of the Way. I like that because it implies that we are on the road.
While we live on this earth, we journey. We have not arrived at our destination. I can help you find your way, but only if I get on the road with you and stand in your shoes. I can't stand over here where I am and tell you where to go. My map doesn't look like yours because we're on different roads. If you try to follow my map from where you stand, you will get lost.
Fortunately, Jesus. a.k.a God with Us, is the Way. He stands with me on my road, and he stands with you on yours. The only people who can help us find the way are the ones who are willing to stand with us right where we are. This is why judgment is such an affront. It is the opposite of all that Jesus is. He entered into this painful life, full of suffering, so that we would not be alone. He did not stand far off and point and gesture and yell, trying to get us on the road, and then judge us when we didn't hear him because the distance was so great. He came near. He still comes near. He stands with us where we are so he can show us the way.
Monday, December 10, 2012
My Father Is Disappearing
I try to call my dad every few days. Lately it requires a deep breath before I make the call. I never know exactly how he'll sound, at least not anymore.
Back in the early summer, I began to notice some things that just seemed...different. He would say something, and although I never thought, "Huh, something is really wrong," I did think, "Huh."
My confusion about my dad's state gathered steam when we all went to the beach with my brother's family. My dad didn't pack one change of clothes. He forgot his wallet. He dozed in the chair much of the day. And he said some things that were a bit more...honest (?) than usual. We began to believe something wasn't quite right.
It took some more incidents that didn't add up and some doctor visits to determine that my father has something called vascular dementia, or white matter disease. Sometimes he seems like the same old dad, but mostly he doesn't.
I am so sad that we are done knowing my father as my father. That my kids can no longer know the real McCoy. He's there. It's partly him, but not totally. The older boys are old enough to fully understand the situation, and the youngest is young enough to be utterly clueless, and I am grateful for this. But to watch someone's very person deteriorate, as opposed to watching their body deteriorate, is really quite tragic. I watched my mom die of cancer over the course of three weeks, and honestly I think I'd prefer that.
Back in the early summer, I began to notice some things that just seemed...different. He would say something, and although I never thought, "Huh, something is really wrong," I did think, "Huh."
My confusion about my dad's state gathered steam when we all went to the beach with my brother's family. My dad didn't pack one change of clothes. He forgot his wallet. He dozed in the chair much of the day. And he said some things that were a bit more...honest (?) than usual. We began to believe something wasn't quite right.
It took some more incidents that didn't add up and some doctor visits to determine that my father has something called vascular dementia, or white matter disease. Sometimes he seems like the same old dad, but mostly he doesn't.
I am so sad that we are done knowing my father as my father. That my kids can no longer know the real McCoy. He's there. It's partly him, but not totally. The older boys are old enough to fully understand the situation, and the youngest is young enough to be utterly clueless, and I am grateful for this. But to watch someone's very person deteriorate, as opposed to watching their body deteriorate, is really quite tragic. I watched my mom die of cancer over the course of three weeks, and honestly I think I'd prefer that.
Monday, December 3, 2012
The Spoken Word
Last week a friend and I went to hear Anne Lamott -- one of our favorite writers -- speak. I left with a lot to think about. But one of the things that really struck me was not something that she said. What struck me was the power of the spoken word.
I love Anne Lamott's writing. She is a careful writer, and she is also hilarious and insightful. But to hear her speak was another matter entirely. Years ago, I read much of Bird by Bird, her book on writing, and I have read many other books (or portions thereof) about the writing process... But hearing her talk about the process of writing got through to me in a whole new way. Maybe it's just the season in my life. Not that I'm in a season where I think it will be easier to write, because I most definitely am not. I'm thinking more of my age, the passage of time, and the understanding that the things we want are rarely easy.
She shared how she is never inspired to write, but still she sits down every day and does it. She tackles it, as her father once told her brother, bird by bird.
And though it is so hard for me to do anything beyond what must be done to ensure the day-to-day survival of my children, why do I think it should be easy or convenient to sit down and write? The reality is that I find it hard to get dinner on the table each night. I fail to make the time to exercise. I feel like I'm always one step behind. Why would writing be any different?
Life always moves in and takes up space. I am going to have to shove it aside for a bit each day if I am ever to make room to write. Because even when Son4 is old enough to be in school full day, five days a week, then I'll just be working more than I already am right now. Will I really feel like I have more time then? Probably not. Not if I don't start now. And that is the power of the spoken word, that it could knock something into me that no words on a page ever have.
I love Anne Lamott's writing. She is a careful writer, and she is also hilarious and insightful. But to hear her speak was another matter entirely. Years ago, I read much of Bird by Bird, her book on writing, and I have read many other books (or portions thereof) about the writing process... But hearing her talk about the process of writing got through to me in a whole new way. Maybe it's just the season in my life. Not that I'm in a season where I think it will be easier to write, because I most definitely am not. I'm thinking more of my age, the passage of time, and the understanding that the things we want are rarely easy.
She shared how she is never inspired to write, but still she sits down every day and does it. She tackles it, as her father once told her brother, bird by bird.
And though it is so hard for me to do anything beyond what must be done to ensure the day-to-day survival of my children, why do I think it should be easy or convenient to sit down and write? The reality is that I find it hard to get dinner on the table each night. I fail to make the time to exercise. I feel like I'm always one step behind. Why would writing be any different?
Life always moves in and takes up space. I am going to have to shove it aside for a bit each day if I am ever to make room to write. Because even when Son4 is old enough to be in school full day, five days a week, then I'll just be working more than I already am right now. Will I really feel like I have more time then? Probably not. Not if I don't start now. And that is the power of the spoken word, that it could knock something into me that no words on a page ever have.
Saturday, November 10, 2012
Handwashing and Old Juice
The other day Son4 and I came inside for lunch. We'd been collecting leaves in a bucket as we were playing house and store beneath the trees. He was already starting a fit over the fact that we were washing our hands. Not big on the handwashing, this one. And as we were in the process of soaping up, he noticed his juice cup in the sink, and here's how it went down:
"That my juice," he said.
"Yup," I said.
"I want..."
I cut him off and said, "That's old yucky juice. It's been sitting in the sink."
"No. I drink it," he said.
"No, buddy, it's yucky. It's not good for you now. I'll get you new juice."
"NOOOOOO!!!!!"
Commence crying and thrashing.
While he flailed on the floor, I thought about how this is just like me at times. How this is just like all of us at one time or another with God. We fail to recognize that God is looking out for our best interests, and we think he's holding back and holding out... Because like Son4, we don't even begin to have the capacity to see what could possibly be the problem with the juice.
"That my juice," he said.
"Yup," I said.
"I want..."
I cut him off and said, "That's old yucky juice. It's been sitting in the sink."
"No. I drink it," he said.
"No, buddy, it's yucky. It's not good for you now. I'll get you new juice."
"NOOOOOO!!!!!"
Commence crying and thrashing.
While he flailed on the floor, I thought about how this is just like me at times. How this is just like all of us at one time or another with God. We fail to recognize that God is looking out for our best interests, and we think he's holding back and holding out... Because like Son4, we don't even begin to have the capacity to see what could possibly be the problem with the juice.
Sunday, September 2, 2012
Time
My oldest son turned eighteen today, and it has me thinking about the fact that some things just take time. There is so much in life that we want to rush. We have ideas, dreams, and visions, and we want to see their fruition. We think the time from conception to maturity should be quick, and so we often give up on the dreams and ideas that bubble up from our hearts.
When my first baby was a colicky mess, all I wanted was for him to grow up. Even this moment, facing the sad fact that he is leaving in two days, I would not return to those days where I felt such confusion and despair. I didn't know how to help him or myself. I didn't know how to be a mother, though I desperately wanted to know how to be the best one on earth.
There are some lessons that only time can teach. Motherhood is one of those lessons; it's something you never stop learning. But time has also taught me that some things can't ever be rushed. It took eighteen years for my son to grow from an entirely dependent being to one who is ready to leave the house. We expect it to take eighteen years plus for a child to grow from conception to maturity. But what about our ideas and dreams and plans? How long do we give them to grow?
When my first baby was a colicky mess, all I wanted was for him to grow up. Even this moment, facing the sad fact that he is leaving in two days, I would not return to those days where I felt such confusion and despair. I didn't know how to help him or myself. I didn't know how to be a mother, though I desperately wanted to know how to be the best one on earth.
There are some lessons that only time can teach. Motherhood is one of those lessons; it's something you never stop learning. But time has also taught me that some things can't ever be rushed. It took eighteen years for my son to grow from an entirely dependent being to one who is ready to leave the house. We expect it to take eighteen years plus for a child to grow from conception to maturity. But what about our ideas and dreams and plans? How long do we give them to grow?
Thursday, August 23, 2012
The Best Grief
In twelve days (not that I'm counting), we will put Son1 on a plane to embark on the rest of his life. He will spend nine months in Maine participating in a leadership and service program, where he will concentrate on student ministries. When he returns, I expect he will have a greater understanding of who he is and the impact he wants to make on this world, and then he will begin the college adventure. I am genuinely thrilled for him. It's a good plan, and the right one for him.
For years, I was mystified by the moms who made so much of their children leaving the nest. My own parents didn't seem too flustered by the experience when I left, and I was too young to notice whether they seemed distressed when my brothers left for college. I expected to embrace this right of passage when my own children reached it. Kids should grow up. They should move on (and move out). Of course, it's easy to have these feelings when the reality is years away.
About a year ago I began to realize it wouldn't be so simple. And so this whole year has felt like a countdown to the inevitable: the loss of this boy I adore in the day-to-day life of our family. What I thought I would so easily accept -- my son growing up -- began to feel a lot like grief.
This summer, life has felt more poignant. Sometimes when I've heard Son4, the two-year-old, say good-bye to his oldest brother as he's walking out the door, I've felt like I could burst into tears because a bigger good-bye is coming. I am broken-hearted because this little guy will miss out on living with his oldest brother day in and day out, and because Son1 will miss out on watching his youngest brother change before his eyes. And then there are Sons 2 &3. They love their brother. In many ways, they rely on him. The three of them have been a unit almost as long as the three of them have all been in this world. Because I grew up essentially like an only child, I have found it fascinating to watch the relationships, the dynamics, the interplay among them. They showed me all that I missed. They are like a little tribe, with their own set of memories and jokes, a shared understanding and culture. This isn't just hard for me and the husband. Those boys will miss their brother. Life will not be the same for any of us.
We lived in Chicago when Son1 was born, and I could not take him to the grocery store without at least one woman approaching me and saying, "Enjoy it. It goes so quickly." All Son1 did at that age was scream and cry, so I had no idea what these ladies meant when they said to enjoy it, and I figured the whole thing couldn't go quickly enough. But every trip I made to Dominick's supermarket, another lovely woman said it to me again. Perhaps all of them had a high school senior in the house.
Of course those women in Dominick's were right. It does go quickly, every year faster than the one before it. As I've been staring down my sadness and sense of loss as the big day approaches, I've realized something very important: I will cry when he leaves, but I don't really have anything to cry about. Children can lead us to grief in all kinds of ways. I could have wanted to have children and been unable to. I could have lost a child to an accident or to disease. I could have lost a child to addiction or other destructive behaviors. All of that would mean a heartbreak I can't fathom. Instead, I have a son who will soon turn eighteen and who is starting out on the journey of the rest of his life. My grief is the best grief there is -- my wonderful boy has grown up and he wants to leave.
For years, I was mystified by the moms who made so much of their children leaving the nest. My own parents didn't seem too flustered by the experience when I left, and I was too young to notice whether they seemed distressed when my brothers left for college. I expected to embrace this right of passage when my own children reached it. Kids should grow up. They should move on (and move out). Of course, it's easy to have these feelings when the reality is years away.
About a year ago I began to realize it wouldn't be so simple. And so this whole year has felt like a countdown to the inevitable: the loss of this boy I adore in the day-to-day life of our family. What I thought I would so easily accept -- my son growing up -- began to feel a lot like grief.
This summer, life has felt more poignant. Sometimes when I've heard Son4, the two-year-old, say good-bye to his oldest brother as he's walking out the door, I've felt like I could burst into tears because a bigger good-bye is coming. I am broken-hearted because this little guy will miss out on living with his oldest brother day in and day out, and because Son1 will miss out on watching his youngest brother change before his eyes. And then there are Sons 2 &3. They love their brother. In many ways, they rely on him. The three of them have been a unit almost as long as the three of them have all been in this world. Because I grew up essentially like an only child, I have found it fascinating to watch the relationships, the dynamics, the interplay among them. They showed me all that I missed. They are like a little tribe, with their own set of memories and jokes, a shared understanding and culture. This isn't just hard for me and the husband. Those boys will miss their brother. Life will not be the same for any of us.
We lived in Chicago when Son1 was born, and I could not take him to the grocery store without at least one woman approaching me and saying, "Enjoy it. It goes so quickly." All Son1 did at that age was scream and cry, so I had no idea what these ladies meant when they said to enjoy it, and I figured the whole thing couldn't go quickly enough. But every trip I made to Dominick's supermarket, another lovely woman said it to me again. Perhaps all of them had a high school senior in the house.
Of course those women in Dominick's were right. It does go quickly, every year faster than the one before it. As I've been staring down my sadness and sense of loss as the big day approaches, I've realized something very important: I will cry when he leaves, but I don't really have anything to cry about. Children can lead us to grief in all kinds of ways. I could have wanted to have children and been unable to. I could have lost a child to an accident or to disease. I could have lost a child to addiction or other destructive behaviors. All of that would mean a heartbreak I can't fathom. Instead, I have a son who will soon turn eighteen and who is starting out on the journey of the rest of his life. My grief is the best grief there is -- my wonderful boy has grown up and he wants to leave.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)